[b]Lidia Yuknavitch
I never felt crazy, I just felt gone away.[/b]
Me too. But crazy was always in the vicinity.
Sometimes saviors look different than you thought they would.
If you thought they existed at all.
Have endless patterns and repetitions accompanying your thoughtlessness, as if to say let go of that other more linear story, with its beginning, middle, and end, with its transcendent end, let go, we are the poem, we have come miles of life, we have survived this far to tell you, go on, go on.
Or not of course.
It’s a movie about everything. This world we live in. The bodies we’re stuck with. The lives we get whether we want them or not. How hard you have to work just to get through a fucking day without killing yourself.
And that’s just the opening credits.
We misfits are the ones with the ability to enter grief. Death. Trauma. And emerge.
Hurrah for us…
You can be a drunk. You can be a survivor of abuse. You can be an ex-con. You can be a homeless person. You can lose all your money or your job or a husband or a wife, or the worst thing imaginable, a child. You can lose your marbles. You can be standing inside your own failure, a small sad stone in your throat, and still you are beautiful, your story is worth hearing, because you–you rare and phenomenal misfit–are the only one in the world who can tell the story the way that only you can.
Providing there are others willing to listen.